Perilous Curves Collection (BBW Romance)

Perilous Curves Collection

Reputation, freedom, their very lives -- these plus-size beauties could lose it all if they love the wrong man!

Previously released as single titles, this erotic romance collection brings together:

Killer Curves --
Twenty years ago, Dante Serrano walked out before his wedding to Olivia Miller. Now Olivia is a renowned crime scene investigator and Dante's son is in jail for a murder he claims he didn't commit. To put her ex-lover in the past where he belongs, Liv needs to find the real killer and fast. Being around Dante is waking long buried desires and Dante wants the plus-size beauty back -- in his arms and his bed.

But if he tells Liv the truth of why he walked out, he just might lose his son.

Captive Curves --
Undercover DEA agent Dean Ramirez already has one dead body on his conscience when plus-size beauty Garnet Williams accidentally walks in on a drug deal gone bad. With the two members of the Mexican cartel in the room more than ready to slit the woman’s throat, he has to think fast to save her without blowing his investigation.

Gazing on the woman’s pale, flawless skin, quivering mouth and oh-so-lush curves, inspiration strikes. Until he can spirit her away to witness protection, Ramirez has no choice but to claim her as his own. But will his one chance at saving her life cost him her love?

Vegas Curves --
Reformed con artist and card sharp Marie Lafayette never had a chance to "come of age." She was too busy staying out of jail and keeping her little brother and sister out of the morgue. Six years on the run from her father, living as clean as she can to raise her siblings, she was hoping L.A. would give her family a fresh start.

Instead, her sister is taken hostage by a violent criminal from their past who forces Marie to once again put on her game face and take a seat at a Vegas Blackjack table.

Busted by casino owner Luke Masters when Marie's soft lips and lush curves catch his eye, she has one chance to save her sister and erase the past -- if she surrenders to Masters' every passion for thirty days.

********************

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Killer Curves

A construction worker held the door open for me as I stepped into the elevator of my downtown office building. I studied the man discreetly, first in a side glance as I passed, then more fully as I moved behind him and turned to face the elevator doors. My gaze skipped down the denim jacket he had on over a white t-shirt as I zeroed in on faded jeans that looked like they had been painted onto his mouth watering lower body. Wearing thick-soled Timberland boots, he looked like he was pushing six and a half feet tall but probably stood no more than six-two.

Tall and muscular with jet black hair and golden brown skin, the man was exactly my type and I felt a warm burn, long absent, start low in my gut and spread.

The doors started to close again and he stopped them for an elderly woman who had just entered the lobby. Thankful for the extra time to ogle him, I studied his glorious ass and told him which floor I needed.

"Can you press seven?" Hearing the speculative tone in my request, I tensed. I felt the blood drain instantly from my face as a fervent prayer that he not look back started looping through my head. That lasted half a second before reality slapped a little color into my cheeks. Tall, dark and handsome wouldn't look back -- why would he? Middle-aged and overweight, I'm no head turner and I never have been.

Relieved and a little disappointed, I leaned against the back wall of the elevator and relaxed.

My sexy construction worker pushed "7" then glanced at the elderly woman who had just entered. My pulse beating a carnal rhythm through my head, I didn’t hear the woman’s reply but the man pushed "4" and the elevator doors closed.

Sure now that he couldn’t be bothered to glance my way, I resumed my inspection. I had only seen the left side of his face as I entered and the aged metal of the elevator doors threw back a distorted reflection. The lovely, deep gold of his skin was either a tan or he was Latino -- didn't matter to me. The achingly thick jet black hair was only starting to gray at the temples. The strong cut of his partial profile assured me his features would be very masculine while the small crow’s feet around what I could see of his left eye and a single, deep laugh line on his cheek suggested he was about my age or just a few years older.

Even at forty plus, his thick, muscled arms and tight ass made him look more like the Hollywood version of an American working man than what I expected to see in my Masonville office building. Thinking there was a very good chance someone was filming a Diet Coke commercial or some Real Video prank in my building, I made a point of checking the logo on the back of his jacket. The picture looked legitimate enough with a white cut-out of a heron surrounded by lettering. Not wanting to get caught drooling over a stranger on camera, I read the company name just to be safe.

Serrano Enterprises.

I slouched against the wall as my heart dropped to the floor. Of all the people I didn't want to run into, this man was at the top of the list!

Desperate to get out before he realized who I was, I glanced at the numbered lights above the doors and marked the elevator’s progress. We had just hit the third floor, leaving me four more to go. My gaze jumped to the elevator control panel to find that the "4" was lit for the other passenger. My heart eased off the throttle as some of the tension in me drained. I’d exit when the elevator stopped to let her off and take the stairs the last three flights.

I wouldn’t look back, he wouldn't get a second chance to recognize me. I drew a deep breath, convincing myself it was a solid plan. Hell, it had been over twenty years since I last saw him and I hadn’t recognized him by his profile.

The elevator jerked to a stop and the old woman moved in front of the doors. When they opened, I fell in line behind her.

"You said seven."

Even if I hadn’t recognized his face from the brief glance, there was no mistaking the deep, panty-soaking purr of Dante Serrano's voice.

"My mistake." I didn’t look back -- not even when his hand gently gripped my shoulder to stop me cold in my tracks.

"Lobby directory says, 'Olivia Miller, Suite 701.’" With his free hand, he hit the control panel’s
close
button. "I didn’t expect a welcome parade or anything, Liv, but it’s not like you to run."

No, running had been his trick, not mine. Remembering to breathe again, I turned and shrugged off his hand. It took me another long second to force my expression to relax.

"So, you’re here to see me." My words were flat, not a question but a statement for him to confirm. He did so with a slight nod.

How he had found me after so many years wasn't a mystery. I had moved back to Masonville from Miami to deal with my mother's increasingly fragile memory. My return and the opening of my business had been marked by a small write-up in the local paper. The only mystery was why Dante had bothered.

My tongue twisted behind sealed lips with all the things I wanted to say, but I remained silent until I could manage a calm response -- one that didn't involve punching Serrano's handsome face or breaking down into tears. "On what matter?"

"To hire you," he answered cautiously.

I took another breath in and tightened my grip on my computer bag, letting its weight anchor me against the emotions that threatened to send me crashing to the floor. I tried to tell myself I was overreacting but I wasn't. A little more than two decades after dumping me mere weeks before our wedding and without explanation, Dante was here to hire me. Not to explain or apologize -- as if I would have listened to him anyway -- but to hire me. He either had a hell of a set of balls on him or he was desperate.

"Just give me one minute in your office, Liv."

The elevator stopped and I met his gold-green gaze for an instant before zeroing in on the tightly pressed lips and furrowed brow. Feeling like a weak fool for doing so, I turned, stepped onto the seventh floor and motioned for him to follow me.

Of course Dante was desperate -- any civilian hiring a crime scene consultant always was.

********************

I unlocked the front door to my suite, walked past the desk for a receptionist I had yet to hire, and entered my office. I could hear Dante following, the soft but distinct brush of denim indicating he was close behind.

In my head, I could feel how close he was. The skin along my back warmed from his proximity. The heat did weird but completely familiar things to me. Two decades had passed but my body's reaction to him was pre-programmed. My nipples began to tighten as my panties slowly soaked through.

He's not here for you, stupid!

Right, I told myself, stay focused. Another twenty plus years would have gone by without Dante seeking me out if I didn't have something he needed desperately. He was still the same man who had walked out on me. I'd give him his minute then send him on his way.

I pointed at a chair and moved behind my glass desk, my brain redirecting itself as I tried to think of any big criminal cases pending in Masonville. Scanning the local paper and crime-related blogs was as much a morning habit for me as praying was for a nun. But I'd had one hell of a weekend taking care of my mother and hadn't glanced at the paper or internet since Friday afternoon. Everything in the weeks before that, however, I practically had memorized. Certainly I would have remembered seeing Dante’s last name associated with any new arrest or upcoming trial.

Of course, he'd lived any number of places since he ran out on me. The crime could be old and beyond Masonville's borders. Or it could involve a lover, some woman who had died before she had the chance to carry his name.

Taking my laptop out, I subjected Dante to a second inspection, one far different from the casual perusal I’d made of his then anonymously hot body back in the lift. He looked stressed but healthy. There was nothing evasive when he returned my gaze. Other than the fact that he still kept himself tidy and pressed, the denim and t-shirt didn’t give much away. The boots, however, had little wear on them and the watch on his wrist was plain but expensive. No wedding ring, but considering the lack of any other jewelry, that probably had more to do with his job than his marital status.

I glanced at his face again, trying to decide which side of the crime scene he was on -- victim or defendant. I work both sides of the court room, but it is generally lawyers who solicit me for defense work. When a civilian visits to me like this, he’s usually lost a family member and is frustrated by the investigators' lack of progress.

Ready to start, I picked up a pen and gave Dante a choppy nod, hoping it wasn’t a murdered or missing family member. Telling him no would be that much harder.

"No" was exactly what I said half an hour later. "No," however, was nothing more than a negotiating point to Dante Serrano when the matter in question was important to him. Certainly his son’s freedom for the next thirty years qualified.

I tapped the pen against the glass desktop, berating myself with each tap. I should have told Dante to go to hell on the elevator. Letting him into the office had been a mistake. Now that he was all worked up pressing Alex's case, getting him out might require a call to security.

I frowned at the prospect. My building had a casually aged character to it, like most of its tenants. There was one lone guard on duty in the lobby. Nearing retirement, his day was filled with holding doors open for little old ladies visiting their doctors and collecting oversized packages from the postal carrier. The rest of the time, he had his nose buried in a Sudoku puzzle book.

I had the sneaking suspicion that, when the time came for actual security measures, he was good for calling the police and ducking beneath his desk.

I felt a deeper frown line cutting into my cheek and silently swore at Serrano. I certainly didn’t want to call the police. Not only would that make things worse for Dante’s son, who was facing a murder charge, but I would also instantly become something of a joke to the local PD for having them remove an ex-lover from my office. The professional standing I had earned in Miami would carry only so far in my home town. With a population just a pinch over a hundred thousand souls, it wouldn't take long for the story to reach every defense attorney and prosecutor in Masonville.